Stranglehold (6 page)

He walked half a kilometre in the opposite direction from his house and tossed one of his gloves into a garbage bin. He made three more stops, getting rid of his second glove, his helmet, and his jacket.

By the time he got home, he was chilled and shaking like an underdressed schoolboy on a cold morning. And he had no idea if this was the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, or the stupidest.

THE SPANKING-CLEAN SIGN THAT READ ANDERS, CHESNEY & JAI, ACTUARIES, WAS PROMINENTLY
displayed on the outside of an old redbrick house on Queen Street East in the upscale neighbourhood known as the Beach. The walkway cobblestone, and the front door featured a large window covered with a white lace curtain.

“May I please speak to Mr. Howard Darnell,” Daniel Kennicott said, passing his police card to the pretty receptionist who sat perched behind an antique wood desk.

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Darnell?”

He bent closer and noticed that she had a stud in her nose. “I don’t have an appointment. But it’s important police business.”

“Um. Um, maybe I can get Mr. Jai to speak to you.” Her forehead crinkled in concern.

“Isn’t Mr. Darnell here?”

She popped out of her chair. “I’ll get Mr. Jai.”

He looked at the phone console on the side of her desk. There were tags next to six buttons giving names in alphabetical order. The top one read
Anders
, the second
Chesney
, the third was blank. After that came
Golding, Upta
, and then
Jai
.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?”

Kennicott looked up to see a young, well-dressed Asian man, wearing expensive-looking matte-brown glasses. He clutched a sleek steel pencil in his hand.

“Daniel Kennicott, Metro Toronto Police.” Ari Green had taught him never to identify himself as a homicide detective the first time he met someone.

“Arthur Jai.” The man shook his hand. “Please, come downstairs to our boardroom. Can I get you a coffee, water, anything?”

“I’m fine,” Kennicott said.

It was a windowless room, small, but tastefully furnished. Sepia photos of rowers on the Toronto waterfront, which looked like they were taken in the
1920s, adorned the walls. Jai motioned him to a seat, took one across from him, and passed over his embossed business card. It felt brand-new. It read:
Arthur Jai, Actuary, B.Com. FCIA.

“Anna said you were looking for Howard Darnell,” he said.

“That’s right,” Kennicott said.

Jai sucked in his thin lips. “We were expecting the police to come.”

“You were?”

“Yes. Because of the institute’s investigation.”

“Institute?” Kennicott asked.

Jai took off his expensive glasses and put them carefully on the table. “The actuarial institute. The missing client funds.”

“Actually, that’s not why I’m here,” Kennicott said.

“Oh.” Jai clicked the end of his pencil.

“It’s quite urgent that I talk to Mr. Darnell.”

“You didn’t know? Howard doesn’t work here anymore.”

“He doesn’t?”

Jai clicked his pencil twice this time. “We finally had to let him go about two months ago. I’ve been here for a few years and I was made partner this summer. But for B and B it was real tough.”

“B and B?”

“Bob Anders and Bryce Chesney. Everyone calls them B and B. They’ve run this firm for twenty-four years. All three of them went into actuarial sciences together – Bob, Bryce, and Howard.” He shrugged. “Howard never passed his exams. Lots of people fail. They’re really tough.”

Jai put his glasses back on. Clearly this ambitious young man wasn’t one of the flunkies who had a problem passing.

“If he wasn’t an actuary, why was he working here?” Kennicott asked.

“B and B kept him on. Gave him work, but they couldn’t bill him out at anywhere near their rate.”

“And two months ago they fired him?”

Jai started clicking his pencil again. “Everyone loved Howard. But then there was the missing money. Twenty thousand dollars.” He shrugged again. “They didn’t have any choice. The CIA is investigating.”

“The CIA?”

Jai laughed. “Everyone has the same reaction. No spies here. It’s the Canadian Institute of Actuaries.”

“Can I talk to the other partners?” Kennicott asked

“Oh, it’s Monday,” Jai said. “They’re in Boston every Monday for a client meeting. Been doing it for years.”

Kennicott still hadn’t told Jai he was investigating a murder. He didn’t want to tell him until he’d got as much information from him as he could.

“Where’s Howard working now?”

Jai fiddled with the edge of his glasses. “I don’t think he has a job. I saw him on the subway last week. He was dressed in a suit and tie, with a briefcase, so I went up to him and said, ‘Howard, how are you? Where you working?’ He blushed and said that he wasn’t. But he didn’t want to tell his wife and kids he’d been fired. So every morning he was pretending to go to work, and he just rode the subway all day. It was weird. I felt bad for him. He made me promise not to tell anyone. You’re the first one I’ve told. Not even B and B.”

“So he could be anywhere right now,” Kennicott said.

“I guess.” Jai sneaked a look at his watch. Probably worried about the billable time he was using up, Kennicott thought.

“Did he ever talk to you about his relationship with his wife?”

Jai fingered his pencil again. Kennicott noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. “We weren’t really friends. I mean, I’m single and he’s married and older.”

Kennicott nodded. Waiting him out.

“But about a year ago, he told me that she’d moved out.”

Kennicott kept his face expressionless. “Did he tell you why?” he asked.

Jai shook his head. “Not really. He said once they got married too young. I know they were high-school sweethearts from the same small town. And look, his wife’s a successful lawyer. Head Crown attorney. Runs a big office. Her picture is in the newspaper all the time. And Howard, well, you know.”

Jai looked at his watch again, this time less discreetly. He reminded Kennicott of so many of the lawyers he’d worked with at his law firm. Smart, ambitious. Always on the clock. Not much interested in colleagues who didn’t pull their weight.

“Have you met her?” Kennicott asked.

Jai shrugged. “Just at the annual party when she showed up. She came this year because they got back together again. In July, they took a trip to Cooperstown with their oldest son. The boy had some problems and Howard is a real baseball nut. That’s all I know.”

“So you have no idea where he is now?” Kennicott asked.

“None,” Jai said. “Howard’s not in any trouble or anything, is he?”

Kennicott didn’t answer the question, which for someone as smart as Jai was answer enough. “I need a recent photo of him. Do you have one?” The picture of Howard that Alpine had got from Raglan’s office was dated.

“Um. Yeah.” Jai looked shaken. He stood up. “We all had our photos taken for last year’s company report. I’ll get it for you right away.”

Kennicott stood too. “Final question. Does he have a bad temper? You ever seen him get angry?”

Jai chuckled. “Howard? You kidding? It’s a cliché, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Kennicott thought of how Jennifer Raglan’s head had been carefully positioned on the pillow, her body tucked in under the comforter, the candle left burning by her bedside. He had a horrible feeling that these were true signs of remorse. And that in a few hours he’d have to tell Jennifer Raglan’s children that their father had killed their mother, then killed himself.

AMANKWAH SPENT THE REST OF HIS MORNING WRITING AND POSTING HIS STORY, “THE
Hockey Player and the After Date” to the
Star
’s website, and filming himself for a short online video. He wolfed down a horrid roast beef sandwich from the courthouse cafeteria and at one o’clock rushed up to Norville’s court to see if Seaton Wainwright had shown up. There was no sign of him. Norville snarled at Wainwright’s lawyer, Phil Cutter, as she issued a bench warrant for the arrest of the so-called mini–movie mogul.

Then he ran down to catch Carmichael’s continuing cross-examination of Acton, or After Date Deirdre – the name he’d given her in his article. Word about the trial had spread like wildfire and the courtroom was almost full. He’d tipped off his crime-reporter friends from the city’s three other newspapers, and they’d saved him a seat in the front row.

He got there just as the jurors were taking their seats. Acton was standing in the witness box, biting her nails.

Zach Stone from the
Toronto Sun
leaned over and whispered, “This is great shit. Good work, Mr. Double A.”

Stone had called Amankwah “Mr. Double A” since they’d first met fifteen years earlier, claiming there was no way he could remember or pronounce such a long, African name. He had had nicknames for everyone. Carmichael he called “Charm Michael,” which fit to a tee. Fernandez was “Frozen Mayonnaise,” because the Crown attorney was always so proper. Judge Rothbart, who’d been a well-known child actor, he tagged “Romeo Rothbart.”

Carmichael rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, Ms. Acton, I hope you had a nice lunch.” Right off the bat he was in full charm mode.

“It was okay,” she said. Her attitude seemed different from this morning. More relaxed. Her words slightly slurred. “I had to eat by myself.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Carmichael said. He picked up the remote and projected another website page on the screen. It was headed
Copper Topper
and
featured a close-up of a woman’s mouth, and her tongue licking a police officer’s badge. “Ms. Acton,” he asked in his calm, confident voice, “do you recognize
this
website?”

“Well, kind of.” She teetered slightly on her feet.

“ ‘Well, kind of’? Yes, kind of you do recognize this website, or, no, kind of you don’t recognize it?”

She shrugged, flicked her hair back, and looked at Fernandez again. He was turned away, in deep whispered conversation with Detective Kormos, seated next to him.

“It’s your website, isn’t it? Ms. Acton,” Carmichael said, stating what was obvious to everyone in the courtroom.

“One of them.” She gave Carmichael a big grin. “Yep, it is.”

“And, not to put too fine a point on it, but the tongue we see in the photo?”

She giggled. “Yes, sir, it’s mine.” Her words were really slurred now.

Amankwah realized she was drunk or stoned, or maybe both.

Judge Rothbart turned his head and gave Acton a harsh look.

“And who is
this
website set up for?” Carmichael asked. Playing along with her now.

“Well.” She was still looking at the Crown’s desk. Still grinning. “You know, like police officers. The fuzz. Cops.”

“Objection.” Fernandez was on his feet.

Rothbart looked down at him. “On what basis, Mr. Crown?” he demanded.

“Well, Your Honour,” Fernandez said, flipping through his notebook.

“Yes?”

Amankwah had seen Fernandez in court many times. He was always well prepared and completely organized. Unflappably cool. But now he was scrambling. He had a drunk witness on the stand and his case was falling apart.

“I didn’t object to the earlier line of questioning,” Fernandez said. “That involved the website for hockey players. Given that the accused is a hockey player, I let it go in.”

“And?” Rothbart drawled. Not impressed.

“But any activities that this witness may have had with other members of the public –”

“You mean police officers, Mr. Fernandez?”

“Well, yes, but –”

Rothbart had a theatrical, baritone voice that boomed out, “In a sexual assault
trial, when she is the complainant, the prime witness, I wonder how this could
not
be relevant.”

Amankwah could see that he was royally pissed at Acton for showing up in his court drunk, and there was no way he was going to let Fernandez protect her.

“I do see your point, Your Honour.” Fernandez was knocked off his usual game. Kormos tugged the sleeve of his court gown, and he bent down to listen.

“Anything more, Mr. Fernandez?” Rothbart demanded.

“Yes.” He nodded at Kormos and stood back up. “Could we have a ten-minute recess please, Your Honour?”

Rothbart smirked. Shook his head. “On what grounds? This is the Crown’s key witness, and the defence is in the midst of its cross-examination.”

Kormos tugged Fernandez’s robe again, harder this time. He jabbed his pen into his notebook as they spoke. Fernandez listened intently then straightened up.

“Perhaps I could have a word with my friend.” Without asking the judge’s permission, he walked over to Carmichael and began to whisper to him.

Carmichael put his arm on Fernandez’s shoulder like a sympathetic coach consoling a star player who had made a bad play. He listened attentively and shook his head. Fernandez kept talking.

At last Carmichael smiled and nodded. He took his arm back and stepped in front of Fernandez. “Your Honour. I believe my friend wishes to address this court, and I’m pleased to allow him to do so.”

He flapped up his robes and sat down. His client looked at him, bewildered. He put his hand over the hockey player’s wrist and lifted a finger, indicating he should just wait a minute.

On the witness stand, Acton looked at Kormos, confused. She mouthed the words
What the fuck?

“Your Honour,” Fernandez said, clearing his throat. “In all of the circumstances, the Crown has decided to withdraw the charges.” Without saying another word, he sat down.

“Well, I’m not totally surprised by that.” Rothbart edged his chair away from the witness box and didn’t even look at Acton. “The defendant will rise,” he said.

Carmichael practically heaved the hockey player to his feet.

“Sir,” Rothbart said. “You are free to go.”

“Hey, what about me?” Acton asked, weaving from side to side in the witness box.

Rothbart scowled at her. “Ma’am, your business here is finished.”

“Oh, good.” Acton stumbled, and almost fell getting down.